The Cabin
A woman returns to a childhood cabin and is forced to confront an unpleasant memory.
STORY
Claire Marsden turned the doorknob to a cabin she hadn’t visited since her best friend vanished in the autumn of 2019.
The door creaked open with a forceful nudge, after she pressed her shoulder against the weathered wooden door knocker. A deluge of stale air filled her nostrils and she gagged. She left her muddy shoes on the porch, stepping softly onto the ragged carpet fiber.
Tiny claws of rodents could be heard scattering, and it only intensified as the echoes of their exit replaced the silence. The front door allowed a welcomed surge of forest fresh air, as it coursed its way through each room, tapping on every window, searching for a way out, or perhaps a way to let the rest of the outdoor air in.
She didn’t bother closing the door behind her. The rays of the sun that beamed in over her shoulder allowed the tiny flecks of dust in the air to sparkle, similar to the way that fireflies would light up the night sky during a campfire of s’mores and a cup of hot chocolate.
Claire stretched her arms wide and when she felt enough of her upper back relax, she reached behind and gently slid the backpack off her shoulders and placed it on the cushion of a gray leather sofa.
She remembered that it used to be a red sofa. She hovered with an outstretched index finger, inches above the once familiar cushion, and scrawled out the letter “C” which confirmed her initial thought. It was red leather all along. Dust coated every surface, leaving the cabin frozen in time. The profound stillness of the space since Martha’s disappearance weighed heavily on her. Claire’s heart wrenched at the thought of hearing the sirens and the background chatter of investigators as they combed through anything within reach, in a quest for answers.
Claire shook her head with a quick burst to clear her thoughts and center herself. She decided to head into the kitchen. There was no power, yet she toggled the on/off switch a few times anyway. The high-backed dining chairs were in place, tucked snug against the square dining table. The bowl of faux fruit that remained as a conversational centerpiece was now ashen, draped in the layers of dust.
There was a window above the kitchen sink. The navy-blue curtains had faded to a light powdered blue from the comings and goings of the sun. She stood by the sink, leaning across the countertop to slide the window coverings open. Bits of curtain crumbled between her thumb and forefinger, but she still managed to spread them apart wide enough to view the lake off in the distance.
It remained as she remembered it, shimmering ripples from the wind escaping the confines of the trees that surrounded the area, as it caressed the still water, assertive enough to cause motion, but gentle enough to maintain surface tension. Claire closed her eyes, and a vortex of fragmented memories, Martha’s tear-streaked face, the flash of a searchlight swirled behind her eyelids. Her stomach churned as faces from the past rushed in a disorderly parade that caused her to wince.
🎧 Companion Audio: Themes & Hidden Threads
This story is fully human‑written. The audio below is an optional AI‑generated commentary created after the story — a kind of literary companion that highlights themes, symbolism, and patterns readers might enjoy exploring.
Author’s Note
This story was written during a weekly writing session at Dominican University of California’s MFA program. The prompts for the story were: Complicated, Wrench, Vortex, Severe
The Story Behind the Story
This situation is something I imagine would happen to someone who had a childhood spent at their parent’s vacation cabin in Lake Tahoe.
Internally, I was still revisiting the memory of going to clean out my parents’ house (my childhood home) after they passed. There were a stillness and stagnant air that was unsettling. My rational mind told me it was because the windows were closed and the AC hadn’t been running to circulate the air. Even though I grew up there, I had this urge to wrap things up as quick as possible and get the hell out of there.
The good thing? They didn’t have critters skittering about. I put that in to give Claire something physical beside the memory to add to her torment.
The bit about dust on the sofa layered on… It occurred to me at this very moment that there has been no one present for that much dust to accumulate—unless there’s a draft from an unsealed door/window during a wind or dust storm. This is what I noticed about my parent’s house—there wasn’t any accumulation of dust from the last time I was there several months back. Let’s just say Claire’s cabin had a draft.
I interspersed memory to slow down the pace.
One thing you’ll notice is that she clicked the switch on and off a few times when she entered the kitchen. If you’ve ever been derailed by something unexpected, you’ll know that it takes a bit to get clarity. She knew the power was out, yet she clicked anyway. I thought it was a nice touch to show her mental state and how she processes information as it is thrown at her.
The window scene is a fantasy of mine. I’m reminded of those episodes of Little House on the Prairie where there was a window at the kitchen sink and whoever is looking outside gets a smile based on whatever is outside. If there’s a scene where a character needs to recenter themselves, you’ll be able to spot my self-indulgence and know that that scene is for me, to give me a bit of hope for the character as they’re awash in some form of misery.
I think this story ended on a downbeat because there’s an inference that whatever happened to her best friend Martha, happened at that lake. That’s why it ends on her recalling the sirens. The name Martha was from that Batman v Superman joke that their mothers had the same name—Martha.
That’s the story behind the story.
Thanks for being with me at the peripheral edge.
-Daniel